revisiting toes

Hebrews 4:6
Therefore since it still remains for some to enter that rest, and since those who formerly had the good news proclaimed to them did not go inbecause of their disobedience,

 

If I sit very still I can pretend there is nothing wrong, I don’t have pain and I don’t need to do anything about it. If I stay very quiet even the little grunts of discomfort will not be heard.

I am in a quandary. The perplexing questions are not pain related at all, or indeed doctor or hospital related. The questions are: “why now?” and “how could I be so stupid?”

These questions have come up many times in my life. The huge electric bill – why now? The failing of an exam – how could I be so stupid?

Two years and some weeks ago I was in similar pain, same pain different foot. The pain became a blessing. I became still, possibly for the first time if not for a long time, I became still. I regrouped.

Yesterday the resignation form came in the post and in the evening I broke my toe. Thinking back to that time two years ago, it seems like a lifetime ago. I got up and continued, now I am inclined to sit back and rest.

I need the xray to confirm, it is bruised possibly broken, hurts the same as the rotten abscess in my tooth and the ache in my side. Laughingly I am falling apart, bits are breaking off, falling out and festering.

Joyfully I embrace the toe thing, what else can I do. It is what it is, I will learn from this escapade just like I have learned so much since May about how grace is seen in the unlikeliest of places, about where mercy is found and that the love of God transcends all human ideas of boundless.

connected

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Communion again has risen in my thoughts. It was in a conversation about sacraments. This ritualisation of things we do each day as mature Christians, we break bread with our families, we thank the Lord for all he has done, in creating the opportunity for relationship with God that we had lost due to sin. The curtain in the Temple was torn in two, ripped asunder so that we could have direct relationship with God on a one-to-one basis. 

Why then do we need to go to a church, once a day, once a week, once a month, once a year, on Christmas and Easter to receive Communion? If we are strong in our faith, if we are connected to God because we are "being" a child of God, why do we need to partake in a ritual that has hurt people in the past? In the "being" we are reading our Bibles, we are studying God's word, we are meeting in fellowship, we are worshiping, we are praising, we are praying, we are a grateful people, a thank full people. A people on whom grace mercy and love have been exuberantly poured like the smashing of an alabaster urn of perfume we are soaked in grace, mercy and love.

So this communion thing? I have a friend who was messed up by a priest whilst she was a Eucharistic Minister, as a young adult. Another friend was systematically abused around the time of their Holy Communion and that messes up the whole communion thing for them. For these people and many more Communion does not communing with God.

When the pastor breaks the bread at the front of the church or meeting place and says the ancient words that Jesus said in the cenacle, when the bread is shared amongst the people there are invisible lines of connection drawn - from the pastor to the bread, from the bread to the people and between each person. We are connected to the bread, to Christ, to God and to each other. It is a corporate act that we engage in to come together in love, love for the Lord, for each other, for every one on the planet, Jesus was and is and will be the living bread.

Partaking in the Lord's Supper is also a public declaration that your heart is soft, that you hold no grudges, there is no bitterness in your heart, no hardeness. I have chosen not to take part, sometimes it is because I have already taken communion earlier in the day, or I will be doing later in the day. Sometimes it is because I have been in a place of sin that I haven't yet asked for forgiveness. Sometimes it is because I have been hurt and need to heal that wound quietly before it festers into an offence.

When you take part in communion are you doing it because the person next to you will see you? Or because of a deep conviction of connectedness? Sometimes a pastor will give time at the beginning of communion for people to reflect on what the ritual is about, a meditation with images depicting the undeserving love we have been given, some silence.

We are connected, connected by faith to one and another, connected by grace through faith to one another and to the Lord. A web of invisible threads encompassing the globe and directed toward heaven. A beautiful carcophany of threads, in our worship ascending.

 

Do we go through the motions of worship in order to impress other people? Or do we worship with our attention directed toward God? Do we focus on ourselves—either our successes or our sins—and forget to turn our gaze on Jesus? The Lord’s Supper is intended to help us lift our eyes to the Bread of Life who has invited us to participate in His body.

 

 

fiddler blues

Alfred Henry  was a fiddler, he couldn't keep still. For forty five years he had fidgeted, for twenty eight years he fiddled. It was difficult to describe him without mention of the child catcher from Vulgaria. It wasn't that he looked like Sir Robert Helpmann, he was bald on top with a ring of ginger hair. His nose did protruded like the vile baddie and his lips were a thinly drawn line. A slim man resembling a long length of snot dangling from a child's nose, he was not well liked.

In the evenings he played violin in the window of his apartment that overlooked the playground. He serenely led the bow backward and forward over the strings creating beautiful music, he favoured Mahler, he smiled each time a child heard the notes carried on the wind to the swings. They would turn and point at Alfie then continue swinging, or run to the slide.

Alfie worked as a cashier at the local "SupaSaver" hypermarket, he had started in the stock department, filling up the shelves with processed, packaged foods, so full of additives they were probably atomic bomb proof. A couple of years into his employment a new manager came and with a clean sweep moved everyone from their comfort zone to the next station. In Alfie's case this meant a move to the tills, dealing with people, he was not best pleased. He made the best of it, robbing a bit here, stealing a little there, enough to make it worthwhile without it being enough to arouse suspicion.

Alfie had aspirations, a long term plan that involved a motorcycle, no not just a motorcycle but a Harley Davidson and a trek across America. In his wardrobe he had a garment bag and each day after his shift he would drop in whatever dollars he had procured that day. He played the violin for the same amount of time, ten dollars equal to 10 minutes in Alfie's head. 

Unfortunately for Alfie he never made his trip, he fiddled in another way and a vigilante mob attacked unmercifully till he died, a thinly drawn smile on his lips. The money, when found was anonymously donated to the playground fund.

 

lakeshore

She couldn't face church. She couldn't face all those concerned looks, the sympathy, the empathy, the pity, the "I know how you feel", the "let me tell you about my pain". She just could not be amongst people who cared.

 

Instead she drove to the lake. 

 

Silence isn't silent at the lake, the waves gently break onto the stones, Choughs and Wood Warblers sing to each other, grasshoppers and crickets make their moves. There is something quieting in the non-silence of the lake.

 

Her breathing forms a pattern, first designed thousands and thousands of years before, nature calming human. She cries out to God in the stillness, in the silence of her wrenched heart, she roars her name and the simply monosyllabic question "Why?"

 

She sits on a rock staring at the lake, her tears fall silently, splashing onto jeans. The dog appears suddenly, knocking her off the granite perch.

 

"Oh, sorry, she's a bit clumsy, let me help you up, oh you've been crying, we have intruded, I'm sorry, we'll leave you. Oh you're Sylvie Breakman. I am sorry for your loss. Would you like to talk?"

 

The man had appeared as quickly as the dog that she could now see was an over-exuberant chocolate brown Labrador about a year old, still full of puppiness. The guy was talking, she heard very little, sorry something something sorry talk. Did she want to talk? She hadn't spoken to anyone in five days.

 

The funeral had been on Thursday, two days after it was called in the operating theatre. It was called, that was how the insensitive doctor had told them. But maybe she needed that coldness to pierce the absolute stony silence in her heart, as it melted, as she melted into a mushy puddle.

For twenty one years she had been nursemaid, nurse, maid, food provider, medicine giver, physiotherapist, therapist, speech therapist, taxi, ambulance, so many roles but mostly mother, mostly love giver.

 

Her daughter, Elise, was famous locally as the girl who could. The doctors had given her zero chance of a life but Elise and Sylvie played by a different tune, they sang in harmony in life and loved living. 

 

Sylvie hadn't just lost a daughter but had lost her job. It was called. So she sat on a rock grieving instead of being with people and found one guy she could talk to. She even got offered a job that she might consider. First though she must go to church and meet all her friends, all Elise' friends, all the friends of the family and be comforted, each new day will bring new joy, she knew but still she grieved.

 

all-in trusting

I put no trust in my bow, 
    my sword does not bring me victory; Psalm 44:6

 

A soldier is lamenting that they don't trust their weapons. No, what the guy is really saying is bows break and swords rust but the word of the Lord is unchanging. He can go to war and use the tool of his trade but he will only be successful by giving all the trust to God. Not a small bit left over on Friday tea time.

This soldier is "all - in" I love that phrase - all-in.

All in, I think of skipping rhymes and jumping in to skip with a long line of girls. There was always one girl so enthusiastic that the skipping stopped usually arounf May or June if we were skipping the months of the year.

All-in, I think of a jump when your whole body has to work together to land safely. For humans - so hard, the gymnastics at the olympics showed points wee lost for non-perfect landing. Cats can fall and somhow right themselves within the fall so they walk away without a backward glance. 

All-in, a cake mixture where all the ingredients are thrown in together, stirred, thrown in the oven and it still rises. The sponge has a less even texture and doesn't rise as much as a sponge that has been slaved over. This is a gung-ho cake, a jolly hockey sticks cake, enthusiasm winning over critical acclaim

All-in, me and you, jumping into the unknown. Yes Lord whatever, wherever, without a backward glance, jumping into something. I am all-in to this life, this new creation. 

How could I not be? 

How can I not be eternally grateful for the changes wrought in me? How can I not jump up and down in joyful abandon at what the Lord has done for me? 

I am ALL-IN whatever you require, wherever you want me, I am there. 

Who would have envisaged wallflower me, background baby, behind not in front of the camera, me, jumping up and down, shouting and roaring, all in I am all in.

*In researching this piece I discovered "all-in" is a gambling term. I don't gamble, can't gamble, must not gamble but I still like the phrase. So it needs modification because being all-in with God is not a gamble, it is not a bet with odds and chips. It is a certainty, it is assurance, it is love.

 

more rain please

It's raining, again. Global warming is on the news, but, here it rains. Today the rain is proper wet rain, the kind that fell in Key West in May on the one day I was there. Douglas wrote about a rain cloud that followed this one guy because he thought he was a god. I feel like the rain follows me.

Hollywood likes rain, it is used to make romantic trysts, to darken a mood, as an atmospheric effect. I felt like I was in a movie moment today, I had one of those times when the answer to a question leans a person to one journey and a different answer leads to a different route.

I got my answer and it wasn't no, so it can rain all day everyday and I will  dance through it, I will splash in the puddles because my heart is on fire and onward is the only way to go.

A turn in the road today and a rainbow reminded me of a life gone and a new life born. There is a place, an island of hope, an island of peace, that is within. There is a man who can bring hope and peace with love, grace and mercy, that man is my Lord.

The Lord reign in me, over me, over all the earth and I am so grateful for the changes made in me.

 

 

Clap your hands, all you nations;
    shout to God with cries of joy.

 For the Lord Most High is awesome, 
    the great King over all the earth.

He subdued nations under us,
    peoples under our feet.

He chose our inheritance for us,
    the pride of Jacob, whom he loved.^[b]

 God has ascended amid shouts of joy, 
    the Lord amid the sounding of trumpets. 

Sing praises to God, sing praises;
    sing praises to our King, sing praises.
 For God is the King of all the earth; 
    sing to him a psalm of praise.

 God reigns over the nations;
    God is seated on his holy throne. 
 The nobles of the nations assemble
    as the people of the God of Abraham,
for the kings^[c] of the earth belong to God; 
    he is greatly exalted.

 

 

 

who am I when no one is looking?

But the seed on good soil stands for those with a noble and good heart, who hear the word, retain it, and by persevering produce a crop.

A Lamp on a Stand

 “No one lights a lamp and hides it in a clay jar or puts it under a bed. Instead, they put it on a stand, so that those who come in can see the light.  For there is nothing hidden that will not be disclosed, and nothing concealed that will not be known or brought out into the open

Luke 8:15-17

 

Over the past while I have expanded my horizons again, as my mother would say I have become less provincial. It was seeing my name in print at http://goo.gl/LDBEq that started me off thinking it would not be the worst thing in the world for people to be able to read my stories.

 

Earlier this year I put a blanket ban on my Minister from saying my name in a positive light from the pulpit. I didn’t want the limelight, I didn’t want people to know. The first time I heard my lyrics being sung I was embarrassed. I wanted to hide under a barrel. I wanted my light to hide under a barrel. Which meant that the light the Lord was using in me was being hidden too.

 

At the same time in my provincial life I have had to stay quiet. I have wanted to write and the urge got stronger this week. BUT. It would be a rant. It would be personal and it would be WRONG. Have felt so many emotions this week from weepy to fleeting anger to compassion. Each time it started someplace bad and ended in compassion.

 

I have changed, I really have, I feel love and compassion to this person. The vengeful/ revengeful Susan of old is gone. I couldn’t muster an adequate attack plan in my imagination. It kept coming back as empathy for the situation the person is in.

 

 I was asked “what would Jesus do?” and after thinking about it for some time I thought Jesus had more important things to get on with than bother about provincial in fighting. He needed to tell us about the Kingdom. So taking his lead I carried on, doing the things I do, saying the things I say and thinking the things I think. BECAUSE. I am the same, the same on Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays, the same on Sundays. My heart is soft every day, every night, all day, all night.

 

I am so grateful to the Lord for the grace and mercy bestowed on me, He wants me, He really, really with sugar on the top wants me and I cannot help but smile about that, grin about that. The Lord loves me and is not concerned with the provincial mind I had, He wants me to use my T.A.R.D.I.S. brain for the betterment of the Kingdom.

 

There is a balance, a tension between self worth, unworthy, worthless and worthy. I was worthless, I knew it and everyone else knew it except God, He knew I was worth something to Him. Giddy as a schoolgirl on a trip, that is how He makes me feel. Joyous, glad, happy. So if we are talking about worthy: I am as worthy as anyone else. If we are talking unworthy, I am as unworthy as everyone else.

 

Although my name will be in print, although my name will become known throughout the world for my genre of writing, I will not see my name; my name is irrelevant, I will see God’s hand in the work. I will see God.

 

Although my collaboration with P.F. will result in our names being known for worship songs and the rest of that project. I will not see our hand in that area but God alone who gifted us with words and music, and prompted us to begin.

 

I cannot put the mute button on, or turn down the colour or the sound, to do so would disrespect my Lord and merciful Saviour. So onward to purple hair, funky clothes and a heart that is open. Open to the Lord, open to compassion, open to remain soft for eternity.

full of pride

This is it, not being full of pride, admitting that it is all about you Lord, we are Your servants. Everything - everything we think do or say is for you and your glory.

Oh Lord thank you for delivering to me this verse, this is how I want ot live my life boasting in you alone.

 

 

2 Corinthians 10:17-18

As the Scriptures say, “If you want to boast, boast only about the LORD.” When people commend themselves, it doesn’t count for much. The important thing is for the Lord to commend them.

keep the love, lose the offense

2 Corinthians 7:1

Because we have these promises, dear friends, let us cleanse ourselves from everything that can defile our body or spirit. And let us work toward complete holiness because we fear God.

what else can be said

Proverbs 10:12
Hate stirs up trouble, but love forgives all offenses.

Help Needed Again Part Seven

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I had a daughter once, well I guess I still do somewhere.
She was taken by social services. People stopped looking me in the eye, in the
face, stopped looking at me at all.

I have a husband, I know where he is, he is in the hospital
in the ward we don’t talk about. People gossip about him, about his truth,
about his lies.

I have a house, I live there alone, two bedrooms sparkling
clean. I don’t sleep in them, I don’t sleep at all. I sit in a sparklingly
clean house waiting for visitors. People don’t stop by, they act like they don’t
know I’m here.

I know what I did and didn’t do, I know what I am. Rumours
fly in the town, faster and faster creating momentum. I have to hold onto the
knowing, my knowing.

Rebecca was my daughter’s name. She wasn’t brought to the
funeral, I wonder if she was told. I hope one day she will come to my house and
see the sparkling bedrooms. I will tell her my truth. I will tell her the
truth. I hope she hears me. I hope she listens.

Dodie Foster, my next door neighbour comes in once a week,
dusting and polishing. When she comes in this room she shivers but she does not
look me in the eye, she does not see me.

 

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I was at a loosely called book club get together. Loosely because half of us have read the book and forgotten and the other half forgot to read the book. Club because we are a band of women at a time in our lives when being married is no longer an aim but staying married is difficult. We laugh. We love.

At the last meeting, someone suggested we read that fifty shades book. The idea went around the room, it took form, people were concurring to read, two had already started and then the light fell on me.

The light suddenly became sharper, brighter, pointier, hotter. I was going to say I couldn't read it. I was hoping no one would ask why. Thankfully the ladies pointed their anxieties to each other. Some of the people had no idea it was an SM book, so in light of all this new revelation they chose Mirror Mirror by a safe Irish  formulaic writer.

Great (stage aside - big sarcastic sigh), we were going to have bad prose just like 50 shades, a formula, just like 50 shades but no erotica.

Great, no one asked me why, my faith was assumed to be at the heart of the reason.

Great we would meet again next month, and the ex-sex worker could keep her past secret for another day/week/month/year/lifetime.

 

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Fourteen and bolshie. What a combination for any teacher to deal with. That's what me and my mates thought so we would hang out for most of the day in the top bogs, smoking.

Sometimes me and Milton would have enough of everyone else and we'd take ourselves off to our office. The bottom bogs had the cistern above the pan so to touch it you'd have to stand on the edges of the pan. Inside our office's cistern was a bottle of vodka, me and Milt would take it in turns to swig.

Idyllic days and sweaty nights, that is how we spent our fifteenth year till Milt got pregnant, had an abortion and the whole world (entire town) blamed me.

 

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It was the range of colours that struck me, and, the centre, the centre was white. Well not white it was skin coloured and he was white so I call it white but really it was a pale insipid grey. A child, dirty, in a vest and shorts, hot, it was June 2007 and unlike this year it was a warm summer. It changed in July but this was June it was hot and there were colours.

I visualise the colours so easily, they are etched on my brain, there was a mottled purple, like the delicate fritillaria, looking so frail each year they bloom, it is always a wonder how they manage it. The was an Indian inkiness to the black-blue portion, almost like a borstal tattoo done with biro ink, or the female prisoners who hide the ink capsules in their arms to get a few days in the hospital or die trying. The red, like slates on an Italian villa in the mountains, terra cotta, with tones of weathering, of moss, of trapped dirt, of mistrals, and leaves. A colour I had never seen before imbued these former colours, this colour had the depth of lapis lazuli, with flashes of inky darkness, flecks of cream risotto rice, it reminded me of squid ink risotto I'd had one  evening in Rome at Da Sergio's, not the food but the colour of my mouth after it - black, white, blues and lumpy bits. Fluorescent yellow and green encircled the white centre.

Polymer chained crisp packets, if one were to recreate this as a piece of modern art, would have to be scrunched up and placed under the skin. It was bumpy, lumpy and looked so very sore. The child, ran away, thinking trouble was brewing, that it was his fault.

I turned to my life partner, the man who took full time care of our family while I worked away.

 "WTF is that? How did  he do it? What has he been up to?"

Very quietly, very carefully, the man I had built my adult life with, said,

"I keyed him"

That's enough, isn't it, that would wreck a person. Not in my life, that isn't quite enough. I met with my eldest child, my head whirring, keyed, keyed, keyed. We met at the bus stop, it was raining, it had started raining in my heart with the word keyed.

I was meeting my son away from the house, away from the home I shared with my family, because I needed advice and was fast discovering I was not that strong independent woman I thought I was. I shared the story to my son, expecting him to say something calming, soothing, something I could work with. He said,

"Why  are you telling me this? I know this story. This is my life. He has been attacking me for five years."

Now that is wrecked.

 

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Twenty five roller-coaster years, how do we celebrate that, honey?"
"I dunno babe, maybe a trip, do we have any tokens?"

"Let me check. Wouldn't you think we'd be above coupon clipping after all this time," Jenny spoke as she rifled through the coupon drawer.

"Hey, don't start with me! You know why I never took the promotions, I didn't plan on any of the stuff that's happened," Phil countered becoming more defensive with each word.

"Honey, cool it, it was just a throw-away. I didn't mean to hurt you. You're right, and Philip Solomon, I would not change one thing about our life. Imagine if we wrote it down sometime?"

"Aha, that would be like 'War and Peace', there's our two families for starters, then the kids. Nothing prepared us for having children with disabilities. We could write a book for each child and a three volume treatise on your mother!"

"Phil, don't be mean, I have been healed of my past, I might still have the physical scars but the emotional ones are gone. What about a tv series like 'Shameless' for your siblings,"

"Ha, ha, ha, oh Jennifer Lynn Solomon you are going to be ticked some for that, C'm here!"

The two, should know betters, fooled around, jumping over the sofa and chairs, chasing each other whilst laughing at each other acting like newly weds instead of approaching fifty.

 

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The noise, I hate the noise in subway trains, I hate the squealing of rusty brakes on rusty tracks. Since glasnost there are no workers to grease the tracks. I hate the noise of youth, no longer in the groups of my youth, now tribes determined by drug use, music preferences and orientation, not forgetting wealth. I hate the noise of wealth most, when we were all communists, we all had the same.

Yes some of us had more same than the others, but we all had important jobs to do. My job, I was in charge of an internment camp on the outskirts of Moscow, to the east, in a forest near the town of Balashikha. I lived there, in Balashikha with my wife. She was in charge of a factory there. We had more floor space than the neighbours because of our jobs.

And yet here I am in the middle of Moscow, freezing because the heating doesn't work and when it does work it leaks, and every one has pets now and the noise of them is incredible. I'd kill the lot, like in the old days, a prisoner who couldn't be kowtowed, we just dropped them off the roof, job done.

There is too much softness now, too much America, too much noise. At my camp, in the forest, it was peaceful, there was no noise, there was no ..... life.

 

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...running, running away, running toward. He ran mile upon mile, his mind in turmoil. There was no wall, physical or mental that stopped him. He ran on. He had within him the one piece of information, the vital snippet that would unravel the banking system, that would bring down the government, that would start a war between the two biggest nations, that would stop this civilisation in its tracks, that would bring a wave of anarchy that would go around the world.

He had no plan except to run, whichever way his mind turned he could see only destruction, he could only see annihilation and so he ran. As he came towards the cliff path he suddenly had a plan, he could not keep the information within, it would eat him up and as he looked at the gathering sunset he ploughed on. Running always running, he ran off the edge and screamed the secret to the sea as he plummeted to his death. 

The banks opened the next day as they had every other day, the Government did its business and the earth continued turning on its axis. His heroic death went unnoticed. 

 

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Living vicariously through her characters, she was content. The outside world was too painful to be in, so she sat in semi-darkness with the blinds almost closed, laptop on knee playing the same role playing game she had been playing for over a year.
She met people on line from all over the world and chatted to them in real-time whilst their characters either fought or quested together. She was dying but she didn't want to focus on that. Of course if she got up and went out into the pinpricking world she wouldn't be dying as much and could reverse the process. She couldn't do that, all she could do was breathe in and breathe out, any movement more than that was too much. She had a catheter and a colostomy bag so she had no need to move. Once a day a carer came in and removed rubbish, replenished supplies, dusted around her, and changed the bags. Once a week a cleaner came in and vacuumed around her, opened the windows, lifted the blinds and cooked her a meal. Her body violently reacted to "real" food but she still ate it. The rest of the time her food was made up of aerosol cheese, corn chips, tortillas and dips, biscuits, crackers, gallons and gallons of soda. Cigarettes and wine finished each meal, each meal finished the previous meal, a vicious circle of eating, drinking, smoking, chatting and playing, it had no end.
Her heart did it's best to keep a steady rhythm, her lungs did their best to inflate and deflate regularly. Her kidneys did their best to flush the bad bits out, her liver sat like a beached whale getting flabbier and less able to do it's job. Each part of her intricately designed body craved oxygen, exercise, vitamins, minerals and everything needed to live. She lived vicariously through her characters as she bounded toward death.

 

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Help Needed Again Part Six

If any of the below skeleton stories appeal to you, please comment

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The two handbags sat between them. The mother and the daughter. Abby looked across at Cheryl-Ann, so much to be said but silence was the only conversation. Cher was nervous, she hadn't meant to put her bad down next to her mom, she wanted to pick it back up and move it to her left side. She picked at balls of fluff on the underside of her cardigan whilst twisting the end with her thumb, she wished herself away to another place, another time, another seating arrangement. She wished she could talk, really talk to her mom.

The stilted conversation began, "so, how's college, Cheryl-Ann?"

"Umm, okay, I guess," Cher gave up fluff catching and launched into full defence stance, the arms of the cardigan over both hands tightly wound around her tiny middle.

"Did you have luncheon yet? Sylvie made pie, I'm sure there is some left," Abby asked politely, as politely as if the pastor was round for tea.

"Oh I stopped on the way, got lunch at a diner on the road some place. Is dad home?" Cher was becoming more nervous as the seconds ticked slowly by, stealing glances at her handbag, daring it to get off it's lazy behind and walk.

"No. Father is in the city today. A big presentation at the office, I think he said," Abby girded her loins or whatever is girded on the formidable female frame that was Abigail Pearce  Clinton-Johnson though feels as fragile as a fly in a web, "Cheryl-Ann, I know you have your own life now. You are at college and you'll probably be bringing a young man home at some point. It's just that. It's just that father, my husband, Jack, your father. Well he has decided not to be married any more. I have the papers here, they came yesterday. He didn't say a word. It is terribly civilised, don't you know?"

Abby fumbled for her handbag, knocking Cher's to the ground, spilling open, with all the information she had brought home to show her mother. Or leave it in the letter tray as she left on Sunday evening.

"Oh!" They both said together. Then it was Cher's turn to rush and gush out the verbal diarrhoea she had been practising all the way home. "Mom, there are places you can go. You don't have to live like this. Just because you and daddy are practically royalty round here, it doesn't mean you have to live here. You can leave. I can help you. I have friends who work with women like you, victims of domestic abuse. Mom, it happens to loads of women, but some of them get out. Get out now before daddy thinks of a better settlement than divorce. Love you mom."

The two women, brought up so politely and civily jumped up, bawling their eyes out, hugging like there was no tomorrow. How many familial cycles were broken that day? Abby and Cher became good and real friends as a result of handbags being inappropriately placed.

 

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Stella and her belly were doing flip flops, as in she was practicing that shoe shuffle dance so popular at bluegrass festivals in her flip-flops and failing miserably and her stomach, God bless it, was a tightly wound as a Jack-in-a-box.

Daniel was filling the saddle-bags in an intricate pattern, weaving each item so everything needed for the road trip was accounted for. He looked up at the sky, the beautiful blue sky and brilliant sunshine polar opposites to how he was feeling. A damp, grey day in England was how he felt. An uneasiness was eating into his core.

Brian picked up Star and they rode over to Stella's. The radio mic was on but neither spoke. The chasm between them could not be seen, as Star clung to Brian's back, but it was palpable to them both.

The four friends rode all day on their way to Telluride, stopping off at Grand Junction for the night. Most of it spent in silence as they slept in sleeping bags like sardines in the tiny motel room. Daniel only spoke to say not a bad time from Fort Morgan.

Brian said he was sorry when he tripped over Stella. Star did not speak at all but was sick twice. Stella kept going into the bathroom to practice the dance, she wished she had her fiddle but they had decided not to unpack the instruments.

By this time tomorrow with Daniel on mandolin, Stella on fiddle, Star on banjo and Brian on bass, their four voices, (high lead, tenor, baritone and Star's beautiful dissonant soprano) harmonising their own material on the Elks Park Stage, they would know if "Blow the Vault" could become the next big thing.

Just like they dreamed of last year when they lost Virginia and Virgil on the journey over from Fort Morgan, they hadn't performed and spent the next twelve months rejigging the set without two guitars and without their best friends.

 

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Once upon a time there was a young girl. 
Every day, she would avoid contact with all humans.
One day a boy followed her and wouldn't stop. 
Because of that, she ended up talking to him.
Because of that, some other boys got jealous. 
Until finally only her and the boy were left.
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Hilary lived in a strange little room, in a strange little house with strange people. She wasn't allowed to talk to people, not even them. Every day she was sent out to collect wood for the fire, bottles for one of the people who filled it with liquid and sold it, old newspapers for another who created bowls and vases from them after mushing them up. She avoided people so she couldn't be talked to. Sometimes not talking to people was worse to the people than talking. She didn't really know so she just kept to herself. A lot of her day was spent in the wood on the edge of the town collecting twigs and cutting branches into smaller pieces. Little forays into the town for the bottles and newspapers and then back to the more comfortable woods.

Billy watched Hilary for a week before he followed her. He was a curious chap, new to town and already ostracised by the cool kids. He was geeky enough to put kids off from being friends but not geeky enough to not care, he was in his own world at the same time as being part of the bigger one. He followed her from town to the woods, on her second trip that day, at first he treated it like a spy story being thirteen he wasn't quite old enough to find playing uncool but was just on the cusp of it all.

"Why you followin' me boy?" Hillary sprung from behind a tree.

"Oh, hello, my name is Billy, I am new, I want to be friends. I have no friends. Will you be friends?

"I ain't allowed. Go away!"

"No seriously, the kids in town, they don't want to know me and there is no one else. Please!" Billy countered, not willing to give up after spending all week watching.

"Okay, kinda, only in here, only in the woods, and not all the time. I have work to do. I don't have friends either. It might be nice. There isn't much that's nice, here," Hilary was softening.

Over the summer they got to know each other, odd they may have been but fun they had. Halfway between childhood and adulthood, not quite one or the other, there was fleeting hugs, fleeting kisses, all chaste, not quite ready for anything else, not quite ready to even know.

One September evening they were just saying goodbye when Jeremy Spencer and Rob Dickinson were running through the woods away from some mischief at a nearby farm. All tallness, angles and the beginnings of muscles they circled the two youngsters.

"What do we have here Mr Spencer?" Rob began.

Later, much later, Hilary half limped, half crawled to her strange little house. She knew what had happened, so did Billy, being forced to watch. Hilary didn't go to the wood for three days. The people did not like this, they needed the wood, the bottle and the newspapers. On the fourth day Hilary went. Billy went too. They found they couldn't look each other in the eye. They wanted to talk but found they couldn't. They wanted to cry, to comfort, to love but found they couldn't.

Billy killed Jeremy and Rob, everyone thought it was an accident because the rest of the world didn't know. There was a fire in the shed of the strange little house, everyone thought the still had blown up because the rest of the world didn't know.

Billy's parents, pastors at the new church, brought Hilary to live with them. She didn't need to be told to not talk anymore. She no longer tried. Billy looked at her but couldn't see her eyes anymore. They lived in the same house but might as well be on different continents. As they grew up Billy continued killing and Hilary continued being mute. Both traumatised by an event in the wood, that no one was left to talk about and the ones who should talk about it, unable.

 

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Meet Spirit and Dance. six year old twins - they went on a road trip - a walking trip:

We call our mother “mother” because it annoys her. She would like us to address her as Sweet Divinity, the name she chose when she left home to join a commune. We found out years later she was called Mary Winifred O’Connell but we were used to mother by then and much as we would have liked to annoy her with Mary we could never remember it in time. We never really knew mother, just when we thought we understood what she was, she changed becoming more robust, or a little fragile, very political or like an earth mother. Her moods were like shifting sands, when other people were around she was always bright and shining like a beacon of hope. However when they left they snuffed out the spark of hope and we endured dark days, sometimes she didn’t cook for days or even get out of bed.

It was on one such deep black nadir, as long as we had known, lasting more than five days that we went in search of food and changed our lives forever. We could only count up to five and we had done that and eaten all the berries we could find. We weren't sure about weeks but we knew it was autumn as the leaves were falling from trees, it was getting colder and both of us had put on shoes for the first time that year.

We dressed with care for the occasion of the big walk. Spirit was wearing orange corduroys with a yellow jumper that came down to her knees. Dance was wearing a dress that dragged along the ground made out of heavy crushed velvet. A dark blue matching cardigan two sizes too small finished her outfit.

We now know that we looked wild but back then it seemed natural to have our hair streaming down our back, unkempt with twig and leaf entwined. The clothes we wore were either too big or too small, all given by these transient caravanners as part payment for water and pitch. So on this particularly momentous day in our lives we thought we looked normal and set off down the road. We decided to walk down rather than up because when the people went for a walk in the evening they always went that way and came home cheery, loud and happy.

The first part we skipped as a new freedom descended on us, this slowly gave way to a slower pace until we were trudging. Our clothes were getting wet as rain dripped unnecessarily harshly, they hung down and got heavier and muddier as we marched our slow monotonous walk. The village started abruptly as we turned a bend, cottages on both sides gave way to terraces and eventually we saw a shop. We had brought money in mother’s purse. Although naïve about a lot of things we knew that mother gave money to get things and people sometimes gave money to her for staying with her. We pushed open the door and Dance spoke to the lady, well pointed at things; a packet of jam biscuits, a chocolate bar and bananas. Spirit opened the purse and gave it to the lady.

Honesty was thankfully well imbued in the shop lady and she only took out the £2.30 needed. We left and sat on a bench outside, each item came out of the bag, halved and stuffed unceremonially into our watering waiting mouths. We choked and spluttered our way through the food and with hiccups stood and went in search of something to quench our thirst.

As we turned a corner a group of children were coming the other way. We said hello to them but they laughed, encircling us, they pointed; at our hair, our faces now covered in chocolate and biscuit crumbs, our clothes, they said we smelled funny, we were dirty, and we were stupid. We cowered turning into each other, arm around protecting, not understanding why but aware of danger. The noise must have alerted some adults to investigate because suddenly the chanting stopped and we opened our eyes. A huge man stood over them asking who they were.

Spirit spoke, “I am Spirit. She is Dance.”

“Come on now girls, tell the truth. You have run away and stolen a lot of money. Mrs Hanrahan at the shop says you had more than fifty pounds in that purse. Tell the truth like good girls.”

Dance moved forward, facing him, she craned her neck until she could see his face, “We tell truth, me Dance and she is Spirit, we were hungry so we came for food.”

Spirit dragged her back to be with her and put her arms back around her

 

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 “Got it!” She shouted with glee at the wall this time whilst jumping up.

“The old bat down by the river with all the cats, she’ll give me a roach if I feed her moggies, genius!”

Mary set off in the glow of the orange street lamps, striding purposefully. It was seven and would take an hour to feed the gazillion or however many cats were there tonight.

There was a light shining from the window so she knocked and opened the door . The stench of cat piss hit her as she opened the inner door and the noise of mewing kitties enveloped her.

“ Nancy, it’s Mary from the estate. Will ye be wanting yer cats fed Nance?”

But Nancy wasn’t listening; in fact she hadn’t listened all day not since dawn when she drew in her last breath. She stared at Mary, and conversely Mary stared back. She momentarily wondered should she call the doctor or the ambulance or something. Something she decided and poked Nancy who was sitting immobile in a green frayed fireside chair. No response. She slapped her across the face as hard as she could. The head moved to one side with the momentum but came back to stare once more.

Something else she thought, scanning the room. Nancy’s hash box was always kept in the centre of the mantelpiece, it was an old tobacco tin that had been covered in sanded down and varnished matchsticks, like parquet flooring. Mary knew all this because her dad had one and she used to stroke the glossy top. He took it with him when he left, not that he was much there as he spent more time sent down than out for good behaviour. That was where he made the tin, she had thought to ask Nance who made the tin for her but she’d forgotten. Who cares she thought as she stuffed the tin down her knickers and went in search of Nancy’s handbag. She knew where that was because Eileen and her used nick the odd bit out of it every now and then. She emptied the purse out onto Nancy’s lap, making use of the tweed skirt she was wearing that was taut across the thighs making a perfect table for change gathering. In the notes compartment she found a fresh crisp €20 note and grabbed all the silver from her lap leaving the copper in a sagging pile. Stuffing the coins into her jeans and stashing the note inside her bra. She would have chips on the way home.

“Thanks," she said to Nancy. Still inert. Still dead. She scuttled out of the house leaving the door open as she rushed into the night.

 

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Help Needed Again Part Five

If any of the below skeleton stories appeal to you, please comment

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They woke together on Saturday as the sun spilt in through the gap in the curtains. "Mmm, she slept all night," Carys whispered smiling as Jake, her husband planted fairy kisses all over her head and shoulders. Kisses that barely became kisses before floating to another area.

"Will I go check on her?" He asked Carys whilst continuing down her body.

"No, leave her, she will cry when she's ready. When was the last time we got a Saturday morning love-in? Must've been four months at least."

Carys and Jake made slow, lovers love to each other, they were still young, still in love, still passionate. Jake slipped out of bed, padded across the room and into the bathroom. Carys heard him start the shower, she slipped out of bed, thought about joining him but decided they had already had bonus sex. She went into the nursery.

Wee Charlotte was lying in her cot, waiting for her mammy patiently, too patiently and as Carys got closer she could see there was no breath in the body of her little angel. She knelt down, surprised by how calm she was, cried silent tears and prayed. Jake found her there ten minutes later, kneeling, crying and praying.

Jake immediately thought of their early morning romp and felt guilty, if he had only checked on the baby first, if he had only... He did not go to Carys.

Carys moved through the funeral serenely, Jake was a mess. Their lives became more disparate and in time they separated and divorced. Charlotte was laid to rest after a brief autopsy, sudden infant death, being the cause on the death certificate.

Carys moved on, grieving was seen as textbook for a grieving mother. Jake in comparison, his life fell apart, he lost his job, he began to drink heavily. After many years of dereliction he sought out Carys.

Jake appeared on her doorstep one day in November, it was just beginning to get colder. "I'm sorry," he said as she warily opened the door.

"Jake, is that you?"

"Um, yeah it's me, I guess I don't look how I useta."

"No, I mean, yes, no. What I mean is I recognised your eyes and the way you said sorry. You had a special way of saying it. What are you sorry for?"

Jake explained briefly and then walked away leaving Carys on her knees praying, but this time her wracking sobs were violent, loud with edges and sharp pointy bits.

Charlotte was exhumed a few months later and the cause of death changed. A warrant for Jake's arrest was made. He was not found and Carys felt vindicated.

Jake jumped from a bridge into freezing water in December calling Charlotte's name as he did. He couldn't live with what he had done. Intentional methadone overdose was the amended cause of death, Jake just wanted one night of peace, one night of sleep, one night without Charlotte. He didn't bargain for what he got; a lifetime without her.

 

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"You are so stupid!" her mother was screaming at Mary. Mary was picking up pieces of delph. Mary's brother was stood to the side smirking and her step-father was giving her one of those looks, those 'I'll see you later' looks.

This was Mary's life; her brother caused trouble for which Mary got the blame, causing her mother to lose her temper meaning she's need a couple of spliffs and some mellow Southern Comfort to chill her out till she passed out, meanwhile her mother's husband would use Mary for his own ends.

Mary had an alter-ego, her name was Morrigan, Queen of the Crows, Queen of the Dead, no one messed with Morrigan. It was always later, much, much later that she could invoke Morrigan. She had rituals, she would purge, she would shower in the hottest water possible, scrubbing every centimetre of her body till it tingled (for Mary's tingle read scrubbed raw till blood appeared). As she dried her body and yanked at her long black hair so tufts of rat-tails would come loose from her scalp, she lit candles and placed her arms from elbow to wrist in the candle flame, backwards and forwards till she could feel it. Finally she banged the back of head against the wall of the bathroom until she became Morrigan.

Morrigan left the house, dressed all in black, with a long black cloak, she paused in alleys, she slithered between shop doorways, watching, waiting for her step-father leaving the bar so she could if she wanted to, kill him.

Watching and waiting, waiting and watching; thinking of her baby sister asleep in the cot. "Touch her Derek, and you will die!" she howled into the night. She swept along the road howling like a banshee, Morrigan Mary, no one dares....

 

 

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The sun was setting as the plane landed in Los Angeles. The cabin was infused with a golden orange glow. Celebrity hoped was a good omen and squeezed Wayne's arm to waken him.

Security took forever, Celebrity's newly coiffured hair was becoming limper than the lettuce left forgotten at the bottom of the crisper. That was the problem, Celebrity thought, I have a name that totally sucks, I am desperately trying to make a good first impression with Wayne's parents and it really doesn't matter because my name got there first.

The hair, the new linen suit, strike that, the new crumpled in a heap linen suit, the Jimmy Choo's that were killing, all of it didn't matter because her silly, fussy, manic mother once was friends with a woman called Mia with strange named children and she got landed with the stupidest name in the history of stupid names.

And Wayne's parents had already judged her, and what was the point anyway, I want to go home, she could feel her eyes smart. No way, I am not having mascara run. Where did Wayne go?

Oh I love this man, she smugly smiled as he handed her a bottle of water and a napkin. "Come on Ceely, mom and dad aren't that bad. They made me. And I love you, honey more than chocolate chilli ice cream, more than anything," Wayne held Celebrity whilst whispering in her ear.

 

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Talenkynic woke before dawn, full of night terrors, sweats and flushes. Witness to too much destruction, her unconscious mind revisited nightly. As she woke she caught the merest glimpse in the corner of her eye, a shape, a shadow, nothing tangible.
She couldn’t remember, she couldn’t forget.
Shards of her past were clear shining like crystals in the midday sun, huge facets though were left hollow, without form.
Emotions ran riot within her, she possessed them, she contained them, she fought with them whilst maintaining the serenest veneer of calm. Only now, alone, in the twisted sheets and twisted mind of the night were they let loose. 
A morass of limbs, thoughts and thread count. She asked herself each time, “How did I get here?” As if the stillness of the night, with the humming of nature could answer. 
She began to pack.
She was always on the move, migrating south, along highways and byways, following rivers and streams. At nightfall she pitched her tent, unfolded her sheets and lay down between the cool layers, daring herself not to sleep. A dare she lost each night, the hour unknown, only the brutal awakening was remembered.
Talenkynic walked towards the town she’d seen the day before. Hoping for a day’s work in a diner or hotel kitchen, she began her campaign. A little dust on the face and hands to make her look more impoverished, her shorts were ready to be tugged down for a female boss or tugged up for a male. She marvelled at the simplicity of folk.
“Bing-bong!” the diner door announced her arrival, just as dawn appeared. Silhouetted against the brilliance of the sun, 
“Hello, are you open yet?” she called into the darker reaches of the store. 
“Goodness, my first customer. You’re an early one, come on in, sit yerself down, coffee?” The owner, a middle aged woman of vast proportions tottered along the inside of the counter.
“May I wash up, first? I have travelled many days,” Talenkynic with her opening gambit.
“Yes, of course, dearie, through the back there. Here, use this towel, you could wash your hair. I often do if I’m running late for Harve,” the diner owner poured coffee for them both and set sugar and creamer on the counter for her customer.
Rose, or Rosie De Bois, according to the diner’s signage had lived and worked in Ellisville all her married life. She was originally from up the county in Laurel, but she liked it here, quieter, more peaceful and easier for her to bury her sadness away from her family.
Talenkynic appeared with the towel binding her hair in a turban, “Is this okay?”
“For sure, Ben will be the next in, but not for an hour. Will I fix you some breakfast?” Rose smiled at the gangly girl before her.
“Oh, well, umm, maybe some toast and more coffee please,” Talenkynic began a wistful smile and let her eyes move up to Rose’s.
“When did you last eat, girl?” Rose countered.
“Yesterday, I found some berries and ate them as I walked, they were so juicy, it popped in my mouth,” her next play out she let her eyes close briefly then looking down and blushing ever so slightly.
“Hey, cheer up, my name is Rose, this is my diner, I will feed you breakfast, lunch and dinner if you work for me and I will give you twenty dollars wages plus any tips you make. Mind they’re a frugal bunch round here, not many tips to be had. Or maybe that’s just me. What do you say? What’s your name, girl?” Rose unknowingly had walked into Talenkynic’s innocent trap.
“Tally, I go by Tally, and yes, oh thank you, thank you so much,” Talenkynic gushed thanks and beamed a smile in appreciation.
Later after her fill of eggs and ham she wiped down tables, set up condiments, filling where necessary, all the time keeping an eye out for customers. She hummed as she worked, a folk tune from home, barely audible and unheard by Rose who was busy baking biscuits and peeling potatoes for her morning men.
People came into the diner at regular intervals, with a snippet of a story, either theirs or Rose’s. Talenkynic was building up quite a picture of Ellisville and Rose, a widow with no children, a heart of gold, always with a smile, never one to hold a grudge. Saint Rose, she thought, as she served the hungry diners with food that even Talenkynic found appealing. 
Rose was also talking throughout the day gently probing the young girl rushes back and forth with orders and dirty plates. She was hard worker, Rose thought, but very closed. As she pulled down the blinds at the end of the day she learned nothing except her name and she was moving south.
“Tally, when you’ve eaten, would you like to walk with me some, before the sun sets?” Rose asked as she turned the key in the lock.
“Um, yes, sure. I mean, I have to get going but a small walk would be okay,” Tally spoke brokenly partly due to stuff biscuit, gravy and fried chicken in her mouth and partly due to a sudden yearning to spend time with the widow Rose.
They walked, to Talenkynic it seemed aimless, a little left, a little right. To Rose, there was a purpose, she was bringing Tally home. Turning into the path that led to her house, she turned to Tallenkynic, “Tally, you are welcome to rest for a few days or for a while. You look so tired, exhausted, you need to sleep in a bed. Come?”
“I suppose I could stay for a night and see from there,” was her cagey reply. 
Rose made the most of having a guest, plumping pillows, running a bath and making hot chocolate and cookies. She sang spirituals, reminiscing when she first moved into the house as a newly wed, hoping to fill the home with kids and animals. Settling for one mangy cat that would never come in but sat on the porch with disdainful mews.
Talenkynic sank into the deep mattress, surrounded by fluffy pillows and soft toys, trying desperately hard to stay awake but without the usual will and she soon slipped off into a deep sleep.
As Talenkynic slept her mind, warped by memories of a distant time and place, scenes played out, one by one projected above. Rose awakened and watched horrified, silent tears falling, as she watched the annihilation of a species, Tally although younger retained her eyes and Rose saw the girl watching her family, her community, her entire hold killed.
After the first twenty minutes or so, she slipped into bed with Tally and held her, still watching. Babies, old people, children and women all killed, it took some working out but it seemed certain girls were saved, the men were not there. Rose had never spent the shortest night at the movies but she was riveted to the screen all night, until just before dawn as the violence that Talenkynic endured became more horrifying, the experiments, the torture. No wonder she was always moving, she thought. 
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Talenkynic woke sometime after seven, rested for the first time since arriving on earth, the smell of coffee wafting up the stairs. “Ah, you’re awake, here have some coffee and we’ll get off to work,” Rose breezed in, smiling.
Their life together began, Rose watching and holding, Talenkynic slowly recovering.

 

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"Steph! Get the phone, love, I have my hands full," George literally had his hand down a chicken's throat.
"Sure, honey."
"Hi, DeLeon residence, Stephanie speaking," Steph was putting on her call centre voice. George continued stuffing the chicken.
"Re ally, oh my gosh, re ally, oh my, let me tell George," she was becoming almost incoherent.
"George, George, wait till I tell you. We won, we won. George we won," bouncing into the kitchen she grabbed George and swung him round.
Her eyes, beautiful blue jewels, were shining like sapphires, little pink spots on her cheeks and a wide grin all helped give George the jolt to ask what they had won.
"The second honeymoon, they liked our story, we leave tomorrow, yea, yea, yea."
"What about the chicken?" George asked weakly
"Stuff the chicken! We're going to Jamaica!" Steph rushed off. 
She was probably packing he thought and slowly emptied the chicken and the rest of the stuffing into the bin. The special stuffing would have to wait. Actually, he thought, this might work better, it would be much easier on vacation to add the necessary ingredients to cause an allergic reaction and he might even get compensation to boot. Win, win. A honeymoon to remember. 
"Need help packing love? Let's see how much we can stuff into the suitcase, eh love."

 

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